


Pansy's Veela

by Ariel_Riddle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Creature Fic, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, F/M, Hansy - Freeform, Harry with a Dark Edge, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Mutual Pining, Possessive Harry, Resentful Harry, Smut, Veela Charm, Veela Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 21:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13936239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Riddle/pseuds/Ariel_Riddle
Summary: Potter came back to Hogwarts for eighth year looking far from the boy Pansy remembered. But of course, being the daughter of a denounced Death Eater rotting in Azkaban, and he being the Savior of the Wizarding World, a lovestory between the two of them is strictly forbidden. Until a Veela-sized wrench is thrown in those plans.





	1. First Scent

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [TheForbiddenFruit](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheForbiddenFruit) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Potter came back to Hogwarts for eighth year looking far from the boy Pansy remembered. But of course, being the daughter of a denounced Death Eater rotting in Azkaban, and he being the Savior of the Wizarding World, a lovestory between the two of them is strictly forbidden. Until a Veela-sized wrench is thrown in those plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you so much to my betas AcidicNightmare (who writes the best Hansy ever and I love it) and AkashaTheKitty who came through with a last minute beta like the savage that she is--ILY! This is a five-shot written for the Forbidden Fruit Fest, but just for funsies as I'm helping admin the contest with my fellow Slytherin sisters Kareena and Sandra-Sempra. You know if FORBIDDEN is involved I had to come and play because I live for this shit! I do hope you like it. More chapters to follow shortly. Xx_

**July 31, 1998**

Need.

Raw, ardent need was what he felt when he awoke that day.

It was just as palpable and pulsating as the blood that flowed through his veins.

He was unusually hot. His skin actually burned to the touch, almost as if he had a fever. He certainly felt feverish—on fire, actually. His legs twisted rapidly in an effort to detangle themselves from the constricting sheets of his bed.

Merlin, but he was sweating profusely. For one heart-stopping moment, he worried he was still on the run, chasing a way to destroy Voldemort. But no—Harry had already faced down, and successfully vanquished, the dark wizard two months prior.

Now it was his birthday. His eighteenth, to be precise, and in just a few short months, he would return to Hogwarts for his eighth school year in place of the seventh he had missed. But the frustration he felt, the need for comfort which eluded him—it was maddening. He felt as if a part of himself were missing.

It was a silly feeling to suddenly have, especially seemingly out of nowhere. Just the night prior, he'd stayed up late with Ron and Bill drinking his godfather's old firewhisky and attempting to get used to the fact that Grimmauld Place was now his own. When he'd gone to sleep, all had been how it was supposed to be, so why did he feel so out of sorts now?

Why did he feel this burning craving so deep in his chest, that he was sure if he didn't find the source of his desire soon, he would burn to ash and ember?

It was mind-boggling.

It was pure, unadulterated lust for something— or someone— he couldn't quite make out. But it was there, just below the surface.

It was heat, so stifling he was sure it would drive him mad.

**August 6, 1998**

The revelation of his Veela heritage shouldn't have shocked him as much as it had.

Harry's life was never of the normal variation, but why now after he'd defeated the greatest dark wizard of his time, should he not expect some other life-changing catastrophe to contend with?

It had been Fleur who'd initially noticed the signs. Harry had stood under an ice-cold shower for an hour, before finding his way down to the kitchen and drinking glass after glass of cold water. It was a desperate attempt to assuage the feeling of sheer heat that had seemed to take over his body. She and Bill were the first ones awake after the revelry from the night prior.

She'd taken note of Harry's blackened eyes, of the new and alluring scent that clung to him—a result of his Veela charms. She'd cupped his jaw firmly and forced it open to catch a glimpse of the newly crowned fangs that had appeared overnight. Fleur knew the signs, and knew what they meant. She backed away slowly, with a heaviness to her step, taking in his slightly taller height and fuller stature.

Despite the fever that caused his mind to buzz, Harry's heart still sank in his chest when he took in her somber expression.

It was Hermione who put all the pieces together.

Bright, brilliant, Hermione— his best friend— had it sorted out rather quickly. As with every problem she tackled, she dove right in and produced research in record time. Apparently Harry's Veela heritage was a trait passed onto him through his father, who'd carried the gene dormantly. James never had to deal with the complications of being a Veela and the burdens that came with it.

Burdens like… attracting women with his Veela charms wherever he went, with seemingly no control over the appeal he'd sprouted overnight. Or turning into a monster, with animalistic urges fueling him to search for his mate, to say nothing of the desire to find _and claim them_ as his. To deal with the heart breaking possibility that if his mate should reject him, he would worse than explode _,_ he would _die._

_"Harry, it's not as bad as you might think," Hermione had tried to console him. "You can learn to control your urges. Most Veelas are successful in finding their mates, and, really, what woman would say no to you?" She had sighed, rifling her hand through his unruly locks. "Actually, there are more pros than there are cons. Once a Veela and his mate are bonded, it's said to be a connection unlike anything else. Indescribable, really. Imagine being that close with someone! It's really not so terrible."_

_"But it is," he'd bit out belligerently, "because I have no choice and once again it's all up to fate."_

Harry had fallen into a melancholy depression then. He'd only just begun to learn how to curb his cravings. The urge to seek out random women from pubs and woo them home was strong, but underlying it all was the need to find his mate and Harry resented that desire with every fiber of his being.

As terribly selfish as it was, he'd half hoped it was Hermione. His best friend since childhood seemed so concerned about him, especially now that his mood had soured and he'd become reclusive. It wasn't like she was paying Ron much heed, though that certainly didn't stop his best chum from trying to gain her attentions. She didn't seem to spare him much of a thought romantically, as much as it saddened many an Order member who wanted to see a wedding come from the Golden Trio. Harry had hoped it was her, because he _trusted her._ He'd asked Fleur how he would know when he found his mate, and she'd answered him cryptically, telling Harry that he would just _know._ Besides, he didn't want to burden someone he cared about with the burden of 'saving the savior.'

He didn't want to burden anyone.

So as the summer winded down and his desire warred with his will for control, he considered abandoning his plan to go to Hogwarts altogether, but his friends persuaded him not to give up his dream of becoming an Auror.

He'd already given up so much, why should he give up anything else?

**September 1, 1998**

The train car was buzzing with conversation, as girls caught each other up on how their summer had been.

It was overcrowded, in Pansy's opinion.

If she had any guess, with so many seventh years— herself included— returning for their eighth year, Hogwarts was going to be overwhelmed with students. It might be a trifle difficult to find a secluded alcove or an abandoned classroom this year to snog some more than willing bloke, let alone to find somewhere _not_ overflowing with people where she could enjoy a moment's peace.

Normally in times when she felt a wave of depression coming on, she would fancy a good shag to relieve the pent-up energy and stress. But even if she were in the mood, Draco was becoming rather distant as of late, and Theo appeared to be besotted with someone. However, not even the idea of scoping out the new seventh years who'd no doubt blossomed over summer could raise her spirit. For some reason, there was absolutely nothing she could do to shake the feeling of wretchedness which plagued her.

As the talk grew more animated, Pansy's ability to tune them all out deteriorated.

She didn't share in their enthusiasm. Not when her father now took up residence in Azkaban and her mother barely managed to keep hold of the manor, thanks to the Ministry freezing many of her family's assets. It was only through the sale of cherished magical artifacts that they were able to raise the funds to keep their home.

Now with her own reputation at the school solidified to that of a coward, there wasn't much she could do but stick to the comfort of the dungeons as often as she could, and stay out of the way of the conquering heroes.

"Have you seen Potter?" Tracey asked no one in particular. "The wizard is looking quite fit, isn't he?"

Pansy suppressed an eye roll. It seemed the hero allure was contagious, and not even snakes were immune to the fever.

Astoria snorted. "You're just saying that because he's everyone's favorite hero. Can't open a magazine without seeing his face. Can't open _The Prophet_ without reading some interview or another. Everyone is jumping on _that_ bandwagon."

"But did you see that spread he did in _Playwitch_?" Daphne wagged her eyebrows suggestively, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "He's not the same Potter I remember. The Golden Boy has really grown up."

Astoria laughed, brows raised in disbelief.

"No, she's right," Tracey argued. "Even since—," she faltered, "erm… the end of summer. He's grown. Not quite a boy anymore, you know? His face is more angular, hard or something. He's definitely sprouted a few inches and his shoulders are certainly wider."

Daphne nodded enthusiastically. "And his eyes - Sweet Circe - his eyes are the deepest shade of emerald green and so bloody intense I can't look head on."

"His lips are perfectly kissable," Tracey added.

"With cheekbones for days!" Daphne clutched her chest dramatically.

Astoria looked between her sister and her friend. "You two are bat-shit crazy. You think you have a chance with a Gryffindor? With the Savior of the bloody Wizarding World? That man wants nothing to do with any of us. Though I don't doubt he's been tapping his share of witches left and right," She glanced around, shrugging defensively. "You know, making up for all that lost time spent on the run… _I don't know,_ saving everyone I suppose."

Tracey's expression turned shrewd, "You think he's hot too!"

"So what if I do?" Astoria dodged a jab from her older sister. "It's not like that changes the way things are. He's a bloody Gryffindor, for Salazar's sake. None of us have a chance with him."

"You're just afraid of a challenge." Daphne crossed her arms over her chest. The blonde turned to face Pansy. "What do you think? Has Potter become fit, or what?"

Pansy flipped her long, brown hair over her shoulder and shrugged. "Dunno," she muttered noncommittally. "Haven't seen him."

"Well, when you have, I'm sure you'll be drooling right along with the rest of us."

Astoria ignored Daphne's comment and determinedly changed the subject. "How about Draco? He's quite fit himself."

"He seems preoccupied," Tracey told her rather bluntly. "But that Weasley… now he's filled out a bit too."

Daphne and Tracey shared a giggle.

Astoria let out an outraged squeal. "I think you two just have a Gryffindor kink."

Pansy felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of her lips, but then a shudder whispered down her spine and her gaze was compelled to the door, like cobalt caught in the clutches of a powerful magnet. She stared at the gleaming wood, baffled, her mind descending into a blissful haze. A muscle clenched low in her abdomen, her sex began to ache and throb wildly.

Rendered speechless, she could only stare, acutely aware there was a presence on the other side of the door. It called to her in the most primitive of ways. Pansy was torn between jumping to her feet and ripping the door clean off its track, to crawling backwards on the seat and sealing herself to the window, as if the barrier could stave off the odd feelings stirring in her gut. The warring desires left her paralyzed in fear.

Her pupils dilated, and she watched the door as if entranced by some sort of a spell. In the back of her mind, she wondered absently if she were being bewitched, though she couldn't come up with a suitable enough answer for who would go through the trouble. All she knew was that the longer she sat staring, the larger this strange need inside her grew, as did the compulsion _to go_ to this mysterious person who had captivated her so entirely.

When she felt the presence recede, dimly aware of them drifting away one footstep at a time, she actually whimpered at the profound loss which suddenly gripped her.

But when the presence disappeared altogether, she was left reeling from the rollercoaster of emotions she'd just endured. What in the name of Salazar was _that_? Even though it was gone, she could still feel it— just there— barely under the surface. It was an awareness. Something she didn't quite have before, and now it was something she couldn't forget. Whoever it was, they'd done something to her, and Pansy worried how powerless she felt about the situation.

"Time to get dressed!" Daphne slid her trunk down the seat. "We're almost at Hogwarts now."

Pansy obeyed robotically, tugging on the sleeves of her silk kimono and shrugging it off. Her eyes fell on the green Slytherin tie, a symbol she had once been so proud of. Now it represented the cowardly house, the house who had largely sided with Voldemort, the house that had refused to hide the boy who'd cast the fatal blow which won the opposing side the war.

* * *

Harry had heard their snickers.

He'd seen their saucy winks and flirtatious smiles. The newly acquired attentions directed his way would have frightened him the last time he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express. He'd been a bit preoccupied that year, hunting horcruxes with Dumbledore and learning Occlumency secretly under Snape, but he'd still have blushed and ducked under their notice.

He must have really looked different, as far as appearances went. Hermione told him he did, but it was hard to see the changes for himself. Aside from the change in stature, which was rather difficult to ignore, he'd still felt the same on the outside.

It was the inside that was a maelstrom of utter chaos.

At the end of the summer, he'd actually wanted to give himself a pat on the back at how well he was handling his urges. He wasn't letting them rule him. He still did as he wanted each day, and shoved the cravings stirred up by his inner Veela aside in pursuit of his own goals. But when he'd boarded the train with Ron and Hermione, he was hit with it again, almost as hard as he'd been hit that very first time.

That raw, all-consuming need ricocheted through his body with no warning.

He'd been used to his two best friends, accustomed to their presences. But now, thrust in the midst of so many unknown variables… he was more uncomfortable than ever. He didn't know how to react. He knew these witches walking past him, careful not to brush against them as they passed by— were _not_ his mate. Harry wasn't sure how he knew, but he _just knew_. Yet even so, his cock twitched in his jeans, restless and searching for some warmth to bury itself into. The discipline he'd built against such urges was rapidly fracturing, bit by bit.

Suddenly, it was seeming like a very good idea to grab the petite seventh year Ravenclaw witch by the waist and pull her into the lavatory with him. The mischievous gleam in her eyes and the pout on her lips told him she would come more than willingly. Harry didn't know why he resisted so forcefully in the first place. Perhaps if he gave in, this need would temporarily leave him, and he could enjoy a few moments of blessed peace.

His feet had moved forward with the decision before he himself had granted his body permission, but then his steps came to a grinding, crunching halt right outside of a closed-off train compartment.

White-hot lust seared violently through him.

If he thought the reawakened cravings from before had been hard to resist, it was an exercise in sheer willpower _not to_ shred through the door and seek out the source of his _interest._

Harry knew— instantly _knew—_ beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his mate was behind this door, merely separated by a barrier of common wood.

She was there.

He could sense _her_.

Her essence called to him as he knew his called to her. A vision of himself bursting through the train compartment and seeking his mate out with single-minded focus flitted across his brain. He couldn't see her, but he saw himself scooping her up in his arms and latching firmly onto her lips. His hands carried her weight easily as he snogged her senseless. Her alluring scent would assault him, waft through his nostrils and have him writhing for more of her. The fangs protruded from his gums as venom flooded his mouth just from the fantasy he conjured. His mind went hazy from lust.

She would be slight and likely petite, but he still wanted her _flat_ —so he could crawl over her like a predator, raking his eyes over her figure and committing her form to memory.

 _Mine!_ his inner Veela demanded.

Harry agreed, he wanted to make her _his own_ and claim her in every way possible. He wouldn't be done kissing her— not done _by half—_ he would let his hands wander up her sides until she gasped, unwittingly giving him entry into her mouth, because he wanted to taste her. He _had to._ The need to twine his tongue with hers was palpable and unforgiving. He wanted to thrust it against her in a blatant imitation of sex, as his hands busied himself with the ample mounds of her chest.

His desire for her would be hot and hardened to steel against her thigh. She would arch her lovely hips up against him in a desperate attempt to feel that delicious friction. Meanwhile, his kisses would migrate to her jaw and trail a line down her neck until he found the sensitive pulse point above her jugular and sucked. He whimpered now, the venom causing his mind to cloud and making him sway where he stood. He imagined scraping his fangs against the tender and soft flesh of her neck, teasing it and lapping at the reddened skin.

She would be wearing her school skirt, it would be an easy thing to trail his hand up her thighs and find the hem of her knickers to wrench them off with a ferocity that should scare her. But she wouldn't be scared, because she would know he would always keep her safe.

He just needed to claim her.

She only needed to let him.

And then she would be safe forever.

He would hastily pull himself out of his trousers and poise his cock at her moistened entrance, neglecting to deny himself another second as he sank his fangs in her flesh and sheathed himself in her silken heat—claiming her, and marking her as his for good.

The audible groan that escaped his throat was enough to rouse him from his stupor, causing him to become all too aware of what he was doing, standing outside of a train compartment and staring intensely at the door while he imagined _that_. No doubt he was exerting every ounce of his Veela charm in the process, something he ought to have better control of.

Harry let out a disgusted snarl, clenched his wand in his jacket pocket, and cast a concealing charm on his tented trousers. From the sounds coming from the compartment, it was obvious the car was well-occupied. He couldn't simply burst in when he had such little rein on his control in order to ascertain who his mate was. He had to leave now before he did something truly monstrous, and so he turned his back on the door and stalked away angrily.

One thing was certain, however, his mate was a tangible person who was _well within_ reach.

She went to Hogwarts.

**September 2, 1998**

Fidgety and restless, Pansy entered the Great Hall and quietly slipped between Draco and Tracey at the Slytherin table.

It had been her intention since her mother had first insisted Pansy retake her seventh year, that she keep as low a profile as possible, but she'd been distracted from that plan. A certain edginess had wheedled its way into her mind, preventing her from finding any reprieve or quiet moments from her jumbled thoughts. She was generally much more put together than this, but since her experience yesterday on the train, she could hardly focus let alone keep cool, calm, and collected like she was known for.

Something had happened, and she was at a loss for what it was.

Yesterday at the Sorting Feast, she'd felt it again. Not as strongly, but it was a gentle brushing, a slight awareness that the mysterious person who had commanded her thoughts and attentions from beyond a doorway had followed her even here, inside the sacred grounds of Hogwarts.

Pansy thought that it had to be dark magic doing this, _pervading her mind._ What else took over so completely? She couldn't even convince herself she imagined it, not when the feeling was still there, even just a little bit. It had gone after her, whatever it was, and she didn't know whether to be afraid or excited. Perhaps she should be excited, as she hadn't felt anything more than sorrow for an entire summer. Wasn't feeling… edgy… feeling desire… preferential to feeling empty and hollow? Surely it was, but that all depended on who that attention was directed at.

"You okay?" Draco leveled his silvery stare at her and it was hard to hide her thoughts, but she was a Slytherin after all.

"Fine." She took a drink of her pumpkin juice. "Just a little… weird being back here. We should all be starting our careers by this point or something."

"We've all been through a lot." Draco sighed and reached over to massage her scalp, a gesture that at one point would have seemed intimate, but at this point in their relationship was just affectionate. "All we've endured. The rest of the houses," he cast a wary glance, "they hate us."

"They don't hate you," she argued, leaning into his touch. "You're the brave Slytherin that threw Potter his wand right in front of, well… _you know_ who."

"Voldemort," Draco said with finality. "And I may have done that, but it'll never erase all the bad I've done. Not in their eyes, at least."

"Maybe it will," she told him thoughtfully. "At least you aren't the girl who suggested they turn Potter over to the Death Eaters. I'll never live that down. Not in a million years."

"So you regret saying it?"

"Of _course_ I do. And not just because we lost. No, its because I was scared, a coward like they all say I am. I'd rather save myself than fight for any cause in that moment. It's embarrassing, Draco. I hate it. I'd like to think… I don't think I would have said it now."

He pulled her to his side in a friendly hug and she gratefully tucked her head against his shoulder.

"I know you wouldn't."

Somehow, his belief in her gave her purpose—meaning she didn't have before. Draco was no _Golden Boy,_ but he was as glorified as Slytherins went these days, what with not ousting the trio in his manor and choosing a side in front of everyone. If she cared about anyone's opinion, it was his.

It was at this angle when she saw it.

When she saw _him._

At first, her instinct was to chuckle. _So this is what all the fuss is about._ Fuck yes, Potter had grown quite fit during the summer. Merlin, but from her vantage point he looked bloody gorgeous. Nestled in Draco's chest, she stared unabashed, feeling protected from being noticed.

Until she felt it.

That prickling sensation.

That awareness that had embedded itself deep inside her chest as if it had always been there.

_Potter._

Something was different about him. Something she couldn't quite put a finger on. It was more than just his appearance. It was more than his adoring and simpering fans that bent themselves in half in order to pass him this dish or that goblet or tell him this story or that rumor—Potter appeared bored. He appeared different. Mature, somehow. It seemed to Pansy that he could see through their antics She'd always taken him for rather thick, but maybe that's what life on the run did to a person. At any rate, he was unengaged.

Pansy was quite familiar with that particular feeling.

She fancied herself somewhat of an expert, actually.

All of a sudden, Potter became interesting for more reasons than simply _becoming hot_ over the summer. There was a hidden depth to him that she hadn't seen before—something acutely intriguing. As she allowed Draco to pet her hair and ignored Granger's impetuous glare, she puzzled over what it was that made Potter so suddenly appealing.

Then…

He did the unthinkable.

He looked at her.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. She'd stared into those eyes— Avada-green in colour— a hundred times over. It shouldn't have mattered. It shouldn't have affected her like it did. But somehow today was different.

Much different.

Out of nowhere, that feeling of longing… of unabashed _want_ … swam to the surface and swallowed her whole. What was more, she was trapped in that startling green gaze of his.

Yes, even with Draco tucking her against him and Granger staring daggers , she couldn't look away.

Even as Potter's eyes changed to a hazy pool of deepened, pitless black. Her throat was swelling up and the capability to form conscious thoughts into words was rapidly fleeing her. Potter's eyes shifted so intensely, it felt like they were skewering her to her very soul. She didn't want them to pierce her there. The notion made her feel vulnerable. No one could touch Pansy there. Good Merlin, could the man please look away? It was beyond rude. Did his filthy Muggle relatives neglect teaching him that much, at least? Pansy felt immediately ashamed. Rebounding to familiar territory in order to make herself feel more comfortable in the unknown territory. But she couldn't help it—his attention was _jarring_.

Abruptly, she got to her feet.

Draco jerked in surprise at the sudden movement, blissfully engaged in polite conversation with someone else and content to cuddle. Pansy straightened her jumper and her skirt and— like the cowardly Slytherin she was— fled the room.

She ran from the halls and traversed up the stairs in an attempt to leave the _heroic-perfectly-princely-hero_ behind, along with the foreign feelings he dredged up along with him. Why did he make her feel that way? She wasn't some simpering idiot like Lavender-fucking-Brown or something. Furthermore, she didn't enamor easy like Tracey, or Daphne, or even Astoria. She didn't lose her head around wizards. Why should one heated glance send her running? Had she gone barmy?

Finding herself on the fourth floor, she slunk into the shadows of an alcove, and pressed her back against a wall, screwing her eyes shut. Inadvertently, her hand flew to her chest. Her heart was _pounding_ so hard, it was like a horde of centaurs were running at full speed down a hill, their hooves reverberating against the earth. Gods, she was bloody eighteen. Not a fanciful child who had the luxury of indulging in fairytales.

In fact, she'd never really had the luxury.

Draco had taken her innocence when she was fourteen. It was the night of the Yule Ball. She wore pink silk. Together they were clumsy and unsure, and Pansy found the act sordid and painful. The pain eventually gave way to pleasure blessedly, and then she'd always been a fan of pursuing the feeling. She attributed her fondness for fucking to Draco and her own extracurricular activities throughout fifth and sixth year. She'd certainly had enough practice.

Closing her eyes against such thoughts, she suddenly found herself a bundle of nerves and anxiousness. Pansy tangled her hands in her hair and clutched her long, straight locks, running her fingers harshly through them.

Merlin, why was she feeling like such a sap this evening? All she'd done was share a look with Potter. A maddening, confusing look, but a look just the same. She'd shared… _much more_ intimate things than _looks_ with other people and not been so… what was this? Frazzled? She wouldn't let him get to her. It was just his reputation, probably. Everyone trying to get a piece of _Golden Boy_.

"Nnn...ugh," Pansy made a squeak of surprise when her head was slammed none too gently against the stonewall of the alcove she sought refuge in. She couldn't even delight in her own snark as her head was now pounding, long fingers wrapping themselves around her throat.

"What the fuck are you playing at, Parkinson?"

His voice— _that voice—_ that velvety baritone that did funny things to her insides. If she would have had the luxury of taking a breath, it would have hitched.

Need. White-hot and scorching, blinded her— no— it fucking _assaulted_ her and coupled with her air supply being cut off, she was sure she saw stars. Her abdomen muscles clenched— on to nothing— because she was despairingly empty, but _he_ was there. She could sense it. Her mystery man. The one that she'd sensed in the train compartment. The one who had been watching her. The one who seemed to be the source of this crazy, wild feeling surging in her chest. The man who seemed to have suddenly gained free rein of her emotions and drove them right down into a bloody freefall.

Fucking Salazar.

It was Harry Potter.

He was the one. The source. The mystery.

She wanted to die. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, lest he see how affected she was by him. If he didn't relinquish his grip on her throat, she would float away, and maybe then she wouldn't be the _Cowardly-Girl-Who-Tried-to-Sell-Potter-Out_. She'd be just another Hogwarts ghost, who kept council with Myrtle and the like because even a ghost could produce more conscious thought than she seemed capable of producing in that moment.

His fingers flexed and she took in a lungful of life-saving air. Gasping, her chest rose and her fingers flew to his hand. Merlin, his skin was _hot_.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He said with a snarl, as if she had _him_ at wandpoint.

Did he not see how vulnerable she was? She was entirely at his disposal. He was the superior wizard, here. She was _nothing._ Wretched.

"What are you doing to _me_?" she rasped, and holy hormones but why did her vindictive and conniving voice have to come out so raw and needy? Why did she have to let him see how he made her feel? How she was putty in his hands, even though he was fucking choking her. Just like in fourth year with Draco, pain morphed into pleasure and Pansy couldn't differentiate between them, even when her life was at stake.

" _You're_ doing this," he seethed, his tone heavy-laden with accusation and Gods, how she could just drown in the thickness and perfection of it.

How had she not noticed him before? What difference did three bloody months make? Merlin, but her body positively screamed for him. She'd throw herself at him, if not for the locking death grip he had her in. So much for judging her fellow Slytherin house mates. Actually, raw possessiveness surged at the thought of them. He was _hers._ They couldn't have him. They could get their hands on their own murderous Gryffindor.

"Sorry," she murmured pathetically just barely above a whisper because he still held her throat. Where was the imperious Ice-Queen everyone knew and _feared_? She cowered in front of the man who held her hostage.

He would kill her. Murder her for trying to oust him that one time and then… what was it? Bewitching him or something this time? Oh, her mother was far too optimistic for her own good and Pansy should have never agreed to back to Hogwarts. St. Mungos never would have taken her anyway.

He let her go, slowly. Her feet dangled, then scraped the ground, before seeking purchase in the solidity of the stones. He needed her standing on her own before he reached for his wand and ended her wretched life for good—that was clearly his plan.

Pansy jutted her chin defiantly. If she would die tonight, it would be with some modicum of pride. She owed that much to her father.

But then… he did something _weird_.

He buried his head inside the crook of her neck and caressed her with his nose, breathing in her scent with a big gust of air. His entire body shook as he exhaled the breath through his mouth and the hot air tingled across her skin. He fisted his hand through her locks and tugged her _closer_ , pressing his mouth and nose _harder_ , and then he did it _again_.

And then she did something even more odd than all of that impossible shit that couldn't really be happening, she arched her neck into his open mouth and fucking _moaned_ , his answering groan shooting straight into her core—so wet and so awake and so ready, it was all she could do to keep from squirming.

Okay, she was squirming.

Her legs were twisting of their own volition as she fought against the sensations shooting through her sex. What the fuck was going on? Something wild and uninhibited and dangerous and erotic and... _completely forbidden._

Potter was smelling her neck, and judging by the hardness she felt lightly grazing her belly that she doubted was his wand, she guessed he was _getting off by it._

For some unfathomable reason. Well, besides the fact that obviously he was a pervert. Not that she minded much, because clearly so was she.

"So… ugh," a harsh moan tore from his throat, "so _fucking fragrant._ "

Pansy whimpered, her knees buckling. To her motification, she started to slide. What was he doing to her? What type of magic was this?

He slipped a knee between her legs and then her previously languid eyes popped open, wide awake and alert. "Par-Parkin- _son_ , oh fuck," He buried his nose in her hair. Did it really smell so good? Perhaps all those _Witch Weekly_ articles were paying off. She'd only done her same routine. Just the typical beauty potions every Pureblood witch, ah—. Potter had pressed his knee up and in between the slopes of her thighs and Pansy forgot how to _think_. Was this really happening? Was he really doing this… with her?

He licked and lapped at the spot between her shoulder and her neck as if readying it… as if preparing it or something. Maybe he would bite her? Maybe he was a vampire? Maybe she didn't care. He could do whatever he wanted to her. In that moment, it felt right to let him _take._

"P-Potter," his name came out like a plea, and she felt somehow silly. Potter, what? Potter, don't stop? Potter, fuck me? Potter, let me suck you? She didn't seem able to play the game she usually excelled at. She may as well be a bloody virgin for all the seducing she was doing, but he didn't much seem to care, until he abruptly drew away.

He was so fast, she became quite certain he was a vampire or some supernatural creature of the night.

"Oh, fuck." He ran a hand through raven black hair. It looked tousled, but it only made him more appealing. Was it her imagination, or were his eyes becoming green once more by the light of the flickering sconce? "I'm sorry." He truly looked apologetic, until his features hardened and he took a few steps back before daring to breathe again. "I mean, stay away from me. I mean it."

He didn't bother explaining his abrupt shift in attitude. He just turned and vanished. Pansy blinked rapidly at the empty spot from which he stood.

He was gone just as quickly as he'd come.

What was more, she was more confused than ever.

What had she allowed to happen and… was it her fault? Hooking up with Potter was forbidden! It just couldn't happen. Absolutely not. The school would hate her. The world would hate her. To say nothing of the fact they already did. Potter was off-limits, and that was the one truth she could hold onto in the madness she now found herself engulfed in.

* * *

 

 


	2. First Fantasy

****

**September 15, 1998**

It had been a fortnight now, but it still wasn't long enough to eradicate the feelings that had began stirring in her chest.

Two weeks without contact didn't erase the memories of his touch from her mind. Pansy remembered how it felt, and she remembered well. So much so, that she could easily recall how delectable his breath tasted as it mingled with her own. And Merlin, the sound of his ragged breathing… the recollection alone made her thighs quiver and clench.

How the man managed to invade her thoughts when she'd gone through every pain to ensure they didn't cross paths again, Pansy was sure she didn't know. She didn't _obsess._ No, that was for boys like Higgs, or Creevy. Maybe even girls like Brown or Bones. But not _her_. Gods, she'd been with enough guys to know. She'd been with _actual_ men, and that hadn't been enough to shake her. They were playthings. _Toys_. They always had been. How had she come to find herself in this role reversal? It was unsettling.

Every morning when she woke, she grew more than a little tempted to slip her hand just beneath her sleep shorts, and let her mind drift off to thoughts of his tongue tracing along her neck in a darkened corridor. They hadn't been kisses—not really, anyway. It was more like he was lapping at her pulse point, just beneath her jawline. It was as if he had this desperate _need_ to taste her, and damn anyone that got in the way of his rampant desire. Pansy enjoyed the feeling far too much—the feeling of desperation for her, and her alone. It was almost more intimate in a way. Like he not only wanted to shove his cock in her... But he wanted to _savor_ her as if she were the most delightful fucking delicacy he'd ever known.

She felt foolish.

She was sure somehow she had remembered it all wrong, and maybe he hadn't come upon her on the fourth floor. It was possible he hadn't grabbed her by the throat. And perhaps he didn't look at her like he wanted to murder her just before deciding it might be better to _breathe her in_ instead. There was no way she had moaned like it had been even better a feeling than skillful fingers playing at her clit. Him nuzzling could quite possibly be a merely a fantasy she'd conjured up, because _surely_ it was out of the realm of possibility.

Because how could he have gone two whole weeks without even sparing her a glance?

Was she going mad?

To be fair, she hadn't exactly spared him a glance, either. But she was only giving him what she got in return. Which, well… She supposed was better than him outright teasing her. Potter could be hell-bent on making her life miserable if he wanted to. He even had every _right_ to. But for some reason unbeknownst to her, he wasn't. In fact, none of his friends were either. Instead, it was as if she didn't exist at all. The problem was, she wasn't sure which was worse.

**September 21, 1998**

"Can you really get a band to play at Grimmauld?" Ginevra asked, clinging to his arm in a most annoying fashion. Despite the fact that she glaringly _was not_ his girlfriend, she still liked to feign like she was. An act put on for the residents of Gryffindor Tower, no doubt.

Harry wanted to shrug the younger witch off of him and take several steps away. Ever since discovering who… well, he _refused_ to let his mind go _there_ … but he had no taste for other witches. No, not even to sate his insatiable cravings. He feared there was only one witch that could do that for him _now_ , and the thought alone was both infuriating and terrifying.

Hermione shared a meaningful glance with him, her inquisitive eyes brimming with pity. She knew Ginny was not Harry's one true _mate._ She also must have realized Harry had discovered who this _person_ was. He didn't want to sully himself with anyone else. The time for that had passed. If he'd wanted relief, he should have sought it out this summer, when ignorance was still bliss.

"I'll make a few calls," he mumbled, not really paying attention. Fucking Godric, even her scent assaulted him. She was no P—, well, she wasn't who he _craved._ She could go sod off for all he cared. He wished she would. Yet, here she was,l clinging to him like she owned him. He couldn't help but think that the only witch who had come close to that was snuggled up somewhere below him in the dungeons, probably wrapped around some Slytherin— _fuck_ , he clenched Ginevra's arm on impulse, and she preened in response as if she liked it. Harry shuddered.

"Who are you inviting?" Ginevra did her best to insert herself into every aspect of his life. Next she'd take it upon herself to start sending out invites like a proper girlfriend. "I'd imagine you're being _selective_."

Harry craned his head and peered at her. When had Ginny become so… _pretentious_? She almost mirrored the haughty Purebloods she claimed to be so much better than. He said he wanted to have his closest friends over for a casual kickback. How that had escalated to bringing a band and charming a Spectral-Space-Increasing dance floor, and inviting more than he intended? He was sure he didn't know.

"Just the usual, I guess."

Harry tried to focus. He tried to think about his studies, and about his good friends Hermione and Ron— and of his plans for the future. Whatever he needed to do to _not_ think about the conniving fucking Weasley in his lap, and the mysteriously quiet Slytherin several floors under him. Whatever could take his mind off that, he was game for. So even though he was repulsed by Ginevra specifically and really any other girl who tried to capture his attention, he played pretend and he did it so well until he could finally escape to the peace and solitude of his room and the privacy of his thoughts.

There, he could play pretend in another way.

There he could pretend he didn't push the stunning dark-haired brunette, bombshell away, gorgeous as the sun was bright, and holder of his heart. There behind the closed canopy sheets, he could let himself imagine secretly that she was his and he was hers, just during that magical time before the night turns to morning. Before the sun rose and he'd have to deny to himself and to the world…

...That Parkinson was his mate.

**November 1, 1998**

It was the small groups that broke his resolve.

McGonnagal thought that due to their stress of enduring trials thrust upon them from the year prior students grades second through eighth could benefit from small groups. Small groups were really glorified counseling sessions that the Head Girl - his _best friend -_ thought would be wise to implement, separating by age but not by house.

So that's how he found himself, sitting one of five students, in the newly reconstructed greenhouse with his—, with Parkinson. Not a permanent happenstance, given the Head Girl's penchant for fairness and habit of rotation schedules, but still a potentially hazardous situation he was forced to contend with despite his best efforts to avoid her.

Ever since being taken by surprise, he'd made it his own personal goal to block his cravings and urges being in _her_ presence unwillingly burdened him with. He became quite good at shutting off his emotions. Unfortunately, it had the effect of making him quite the sharp, quick-biting arsehole in group. Retaining control meant he was always on edge. The idea of snapping at his peers made him cringe, but it was a far better picture than throwing Parkinson on her back and making mad love to her among the venomous tentacula plants.

"I only came back to take the proper courses I missed," Harry bit out sharply, "the ones I need to petition to go to Auror school."

It wasn't news. Everyone knew his intentions. He only attributed his anger to Parkinson's presence at the 'open circle.' Her being there changed everything. In the corner of his mind, a bouncing bulb burst into flames, such was the effect she had on him. Merlin, but she was gorgeous, even when she seemed not to try overly hard. Even when her hair seemed to be haphazardly thrown in a high ponytail. He could make out a beauty mark on the right side of her neck. How could he ever have thought her pug-nosed? A ski lift-nose, maybe? Her sharp nose dropped and then abruptly lifted. Harry found it adorable.

He didn't find her lips adorable. No, they were succulent. The kind of lips you latched onto and you didn't let go. Harry could have them swollen in an instant, of that he was sure. Her lashes were long, as long as his, and everyone went on and on about how fucking long his were. But hers were perfect, because they sort of framed her chocolate brown eyes. They were more intelligent than he had previously given her credit for for—seen more than they let on. But of course she was a snake and bound to carry secrets. Her arms came around to hug her torso, wrinkling her perfectly pressed white Oxford. Harry was irrationally jealous of it—because it got to touch her skin when he could not. Also, sans the jumper, he was able to distinguish her curves more perceptively. She was slight, to be sure, but her body dipped in all the right places. He wanted to run his hands over each and every curve until he had them memorized. He wanted to explore and fucking keep exploring. He wanted to rotate her body until she lay recumbent, free for him to do as he please. His hands would follow the path of his eyes—learning her. Did she know how badly he wanted to touch her?

Just another touch.

Without meaning to, he realized he had utilized his Veela charms.

He knew this by the way she twisted her legs— an action he would of swore she'd done purposefully just to torture him if he didn't know for a fact she was oblivious— and the way she adjusted the collar of her shirt as if they'd somehow Apprated to the desert in the dead of summer. He was revolting—that he could unintentionally do that to her. That he could make her feel a certain way without her consent and without her knowledge. He was equal parts repulsed and turned on.

He felt like one sick and twisted individual.

"What about you," he slid his eyes to find hers, and resisted the urge to shiver when their gazes connected, "what do you want to do after school, Parkinson?"

It was the first time he'd paid her any attention in weeks—he knew that. Merlin—that was his one rule! He ignored her at all costs. If classmates noticed they likely only forgave him his lack in manners based on the fact that she'd sold him out. Harry could milk that little action for all it was worth and get away with fucking _murder_ because of it. But now he had addressed her. And that changed the game. She was surprised. Three other people shifted their gazes in confusion. And he mentally berated himself for willingly inviting such torture upon himself. _Nice going._ Now there would be no escaping those chocolate eyes— so _lost_ — so vulnerable. His heart clenched.

Parkinson, herself, seemed just as astounded as he was. He'd addressed her after weeks of silence? What was more, he blatantly held her stare even now? It was too much too soon, he saw that. The girl scrambled for some sort of suitable response. She may play blokes effortlessly, but her reactions to him seemed genuine. Somehow he seemed to be able to tell if she was faking it. The beauty who haunted his every waking thought looked startled and unsure, wary of the sudden attention cast upon her.

"I-I," she stopped and took a calming breath, "I'd hoped to become a Healer, one day. At St. Mungos, that is. I'd always hoped, but…" she trailed off uncertainty.

He snorted in obvious disbelief. "I never pegged you for the sort."

She bristled and he felt suddenly guilty. It was a rather rude statement. He only ever got away with saying such things because it was _Parkinson,_ and because she was _Slytherin._ No one cared to defend the losers.

A Slytherin witch, Davis, from what he could recollect, scoffed loudly. "Pansy, is quite exceptional at all manner of Healing Spells, actually." The blonde rolled her eyes in apparent irritation at Harry, which he found comical, given the fact she was nearly propositioning him just a few moments before class. "You'd be surprised. I've seen her patch things up that could give Pomfrey a run for her Galleons."

_Pansy._

The name seemed completely and utterly forbidden. Harry suddenly hated Davis, that she could utter her name so easily, without reservation.

Pansy. Rich colored flowers of both summer and winter varieties. Harry's jealousy flared hotly. It was a name he could never say himself.

Instead of giving voice to the inner rage which ruled him, he instead forced his head into a short, jerky nod. "I see," he turned away from her, lest he stare at her the rest of the session. "And Roberts, what about you?"

**November 4, 1998**

A sense of fulfillment welled through her when she scratched her name on the parchment with the quill.

_Pansy Parkinson._

She'd successfully signed up for Renovation Club. It was no Slug Club, but it was an extracurricular activity nonetheless. Perhaps it was just what she needed. The perfect distraction to take her mind off of the madness that had seemed to consume her life. Hogwarts Castle was in a state of obvious disarray. Repairs were needed in every corner… in every corridor. Evident in the gust of wind which hit her square in the face every time she made her way to Astronomy class. There were holes here. Rubble and wreckage there. Pansy could help with that. It would be helpful to her resume, she decided, especially considering the fact that she was vying for a coveted spot in the Healing program. She needed something to set her apart.

Something other then…

She was the daughter of a disgraced Death Eater whose inheritance had vanished as quickly as her prospective suitors had.

Pansy sighed and fought to hold onto her optimism. Her situation was far from ideal but there was no sense belaboring over her many failures. It was time to move on and look ahead to the future. If there wasn't a place for her—she'd simply have to make one for herself.

She felt a light pressure on her shoulder and turned to stare in Draco's kind eyes.

"I think you made the right choice," he said, smiling. "You'll see—it's better than busy work."

Pansy's lips curled in a smirk. Since when had Draco shifted from the role of friend with benefits to that of someone who looked after her as she'd imagine a brother would? He was taking far too much joy in this, as if repairing fallen snake's reputations was his new favorite pastime. He certainly had become the poster boy for redemption in her mind.

"It will be an opportunity to practice new architecture and mending spells," she reasoned. "We rarely get the chance—," but then she stopped short when Potter entered the classroom.

She didn't see him as much as she _sensed him_ … this prickling sort of awareness which let her know whenever he was in the vicinity. Where she'd picked up this new skill of sensing Potter she couldn't quite peg, but when she whirled around and saw him sauntering in the room as only he sauntered followed closely behind by his gaggle of followers she had to admit her gift was spot on. She wrinkled her nose at the way they hovered around him. Longbottom was alright, keeping a friendly distance, but Weasley appeared to be ready to pull his wand at a moment's notice as if walking into a classroom meant imminent peril. His ginger-headed sister clung onto Potter's arm and Pansy's jealousy flared hotly at the blatant show of possessiveness. Granger appeared concerned, darting her eyes up to study his face every few seconds as if she suspected him to break down with some terrible sickness at any moment.

Hands curling by her sides, she pulled upon the strength to act indifferent even though she for some reason found herself anything but. She called upon the skill of looking without _really looking_ whilst feigning disinterest. She ducked her gaze behind a curtain of brown hair.

Pansy knew he was good looking, but he looked even more so now. His face structure was more defined and his features more angular—the definition of chiseled, she supposed. His body filled out nicely, of which she could discern by the way his Muggle jeans clung to his hips. His lips looked perfectly kissable and a sudden intake of breath sprouted from her lips at the completely inappropriate observation on her part.

As if he had heard such a small sound, emerald green orbs snapped to hers and try as she might there was no hiding from them. A myriad of feelings and thoughts flashed through her mind as she lost herself in the intensity of his gaze—surprise, confusion, doubt, desire, and fear all blended together until she felt so lightheaded she might sway where she stood. His own expression was calculated but beyond that she couldn't much read him and she hated it. She hated the effect he had on her. It was like he owned her feelings, and when in the name of Morgana had that happened? She closed her eyes against the tumultuous emotions and resisted her body's reaction to him.

Shredding her nails through the skin of her palm, she physically wrenched away from his strong pull and struggled to rein in her chaotic thoughts as she made a dash for the door. Once free of the confining classroom it was apparent she didn't school her features fast enough before Draco was grabbing her by the wrist and spinning her to face him.

"What the fuck is going on between you and Potter?" he said in a hushed whisper.

Pansy winced before she could help it, hating it and hating herself for letting Draco see a glimpse of what she was trying desperately to hide. Her friend was highly observant and in this instance his observations were too keen. "What's going on between you and Granger?" she deflected, supremely happy with herself when he rocked back on his heels before his face fell into a mask of careful impassiveness. "I see." She listed her head and studied him. So her hunch may not be so far-fetched after all? At first she'd attributed Granger's rude stares to sheer dislike that was mutually shared between the two of them, but she'd started to wonder if there was something more. Granger sometimes looked at Draco the way Ginevra looked at Potter, but the difference was Draco looked back.

She shared a meaningful glance with Draco before dropping her accusatory stare and walking off as if nothing had transpired. She doubted Draco would question her anymore about her strange connection with Potter, not if he himself didn't want to be subjected to the same line of questioning.

She was free for now.

**November 14, 1998**

Harry sat seething in History of Magic.

His view was completely obstructed by the site of Parkinson's head sitting a couple of rows in front of him and slightly to the left.

Okay, it wasn't completely obstructed. He did have to work a little bit to peer around Finnigan's obscenely large noggin to see her, but how could he look anywhere else? Not when it felt like someone had lodged an anchor in his chest and secured it to her, making the binding tug uncomfortably whenever the distance between them became too great.

The pain would only ease the closer he drew.

Unfortunately, his mind and his legendary Gryffindor pride prevented him from doing himself any such favors.

Now he sat in class, paying Professor Binns no mind as he tapped his foot and rapped his hand on the desk in an effort to burn off some of the extra energy which tingled inside of him. Dear _fucking Godric_ , but he was wound up before he even started anything! Harry had always been plagued with the desire to want things he could never have. Probably a side effect of being orphaned and having no family to call his own— not really, anyway— and certainly no possessions until much later. It obviously did a number on him.

Having her seemed like a dream outside of the realms of possibility, a dream that would dissolve into a million snowflakes and leave his fingers grasping at nothing the moment he reached for it. She was like sugar crystals on his lips that he wanted so desperately to taste but she would melt away before he ever got the chance to—tempting and completely off limits.

But unfortunately that only made him want her _more_.

To resist the Veela's pull to find and claim his mate was draining him of every inch of his willpower. He didn't know what Parkinson would say if she knew of his dilemma—a dilemma which directly involved her. He didn't know how he felt about having her in his life—his feelings on the subject were far too conflicted, but he knew he _needed_ her.

There was no more skirting around it. He had to have her and he could no longer suppress the fantasies that flickered like mad through his mind.

Including the one which plagued him currently.

Harry could just see himself pulling out his wand and waving it around the classroom. His classmates would fall in a blissful haze, their minds clouded, but hers would be clear as he let his control on his Veela charm slip. He would navigate between the measly pieces of wood that separated them in order to get to her.

Even now as he only entertained the notion in his mind, Parkinson shifted in her seat uncomfortably, as if she could sense him there—just there behind her, stalking her like the predator he was. He wanted to stalk his prey— _his!_ — and toy with her before he finally gave in to his desperate need to touch her again. Merlin, but how he had to touch her again! He needed to more than he needed air in his lungs. The thought of her heated skin against his own made him growl low in his chest.

He would drop to his knees and crawl under her desk. He bet she would like that, _Pureblood-Ice-Queen_ that she was… a Half-blood on his knees for her and in his proper place of deference.

His lips curled in a cruel smirk as he let the image linger in front of him, superimposed with the real girl who sat a few feet away, oblivious to his growing desire but unable to keep herself from adjusting the collar of her white oxford as she felt a wave of it flood her. Harry cast a hasty _Celio Charm,_ intent on making some effort to conceal what he was doing from any wandering eyes that may want to glance back at them, and stroked the growing bulge in his trousers.

On his knees, he would wrap his hands around her ankles and she would gasp. He knew they were bare because he saw the wedges she wore, taunted him with, complete with her magenta-painted toenails. The shoes complimented her long legs made all the more visible thanks to her short school skirt. Harry would bend around to dart his tongue behind the skin of her ankle as he'd fantasized about doing ever since he saw her take her robe off and drape it over the chair. The resultant gasp he imagined had him stifling a very real groan of his own and he couldn't help palming his erection again.

Her legs would quiver, and his hands would move up to her knees pushing them apart, and she would open for him because even though she was most definitely a bad girl, she'd be a good girl for him. Harry's knuckles were white where he braced himself on the desk, his hips twitching in his seat as he entertained that wicked thought. His hands would trail higher and learn the soft skin of her thighs. He would push his head between her legs, following the scent of her alluring arousal which equal parts drugged and intoxicated him.

What kind of knickers would she be wearing… cotton, silk, lace? Lace he decided, and he would swoop his head down against the juncture of her thighs right over the thin material and take a deep inhale because the beast demanded it— _craved it._ He needed more… more of _her._ He would lick directly over the offending scrap of lace which separated him from his prize. Through the barrier he would devour her as best he could until her desire flooded his senses, fanning the flame of his own. He would circle her clit with his tongue until she was a writhing, sobbing mess, unable to keep her trademark look of indifference in place for another agonizing moment before her features were contorting in unabashed pleasure.

Lost in the fantasy, he hadn't realized how far gone he was—how his right hand was freely stroking his clothed cock rapidly or how the object of his affections was squirming in her seat much like he imagined she was doing in his mind's eye. It was startling to realize that he could very well come right here—right in the middle of a classroom full of students! Exactly how low had he sunk and just how depraved had he become? The monster inside of him _hungered_ for her and the longer he denied it the more restless and wild it became.

Feeling sick and blushing with shame, he pulled his fingers from his erection as much as it pained him to and summoned back the Veela charm he'd been recklessly exerting.

Parkinson sat back in her chair panting and trying valiantly to regain her breath. His guilt surged, overwhelming his desire. Several seconds later she was pulling her robes around her slim shoulders and straightening from her seat as she gathered her things.

Walking quicker than any witch should be able to in wedges such as the ones she wore, she stopped only to spear him with a glance filled with such scorn and hatred, Harry could only shift uncomfortably in his seat. She glanced quickly away, focusing on the door as she made her early exit and Harry could only stare dejectedly after her.

He was torn between sinking low in his seat and making his best effort to forget about what he'd just done and what he'd forced her to endure, to jolting from his seat and chasing after her. Maybe there was a nice, crumbling alcove he could pull her into and act out his imaginations. The latter thought was far more appealing, but his indecisiveness left him paralyzed in his seat.

His need was blinding.

The more he put off the inevitable, the harder it was to resist. At this point, he'd surrender himself to The Kiss if it meant one desperate night to sate his obsessive desire for the girl who dominated his every thought.

But as badly as he wanted it, he could hardly force such an infringement… such an invasion… onto her without her permission. It would be no different than using love potions to commit rape. His Veela charms were equally as abhorrent if not worse in his opinion.

His heart clenched with pain and unabashed longing.

He'd always wanted what he couldn't have… but now he had her attention. Perhaps there were other ways to get to know her—to get her to like him—without cheating and using his charms. Yes, maybe being an absolute prat and pushing her away wasn't exactly the best method of winning her affection… if that's what he really wanted.

Sighing, he shoved his hands in his hair and pulled his head down to face the desk. His emotions were a chaotic mess. He wasn't sure what he wanted. He wasn't sure he could ever truly care for the girl who would so readily turn him over to Voldemort. The only thing he was sure of was the raw, aching want he felt for her so strong it overwhelmed his senses and made it difficult to think rationally. _Be nice to her_ , the sadistic monster whispered. _With your charisma and my charm she'll be begging for it._ Despite his misgivings and inability to sort his own intentions, he had to appreciate the sound advice.

A begging Parkinson appealed to his more baser desires.

It was exactly what he needed and he simply had to have her.

* * *

 


	3. First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Omgosh hey lovliest ones! This chapter is funner, I think. We'll see what you think. Happy reading Xx**
> 
> **Beta Love to mah snakey-sister Kaarina_Riddle!**

****

**November 20, 1998**

_Soft, luxuriant locks threaded through her fingers. She rubbed the hair between her fingertips, pulling and tugging, prodded on by her growing urgency. Kisses were peppering her neck, nipping and suckling her reddened skin, and she felt heat bloom low in her abdomen._

_Pansy squirmed her legs and moaned, gripping the hair she held tighter. She opened her eyes, not quite sure who she held in her arms… or who was holding her. Tilting her head to the side and simultaneously giving her mystery man better access, she let her eyes flutter open to see the tan, well-muscled arms which twined around her waist and pulled her towards a lithe and lean body._

_Holding his head closely to her neck with her right hand, she let her left wander down between the gap which separated them. Her fingers trailed along his incredibly toned chest, wishing desperately to feel skin against skin. She traced the hard planes and muscles she felt just under the fabric of his shirt, taunting her. Her fingers slid lower down his abdomen, intent on finding the hem and sneaking underneath._

_Her plan went haywire when she felt his skillful lips began to wander… first from the column of her jaw and then to her collar bone, exposed thanks to the low-hanging camisole she wore. Without her permission, her eyes fluttered shut once more, her mission forgotten, and her right hand fell to the nape of his neck, squeezing and holding him there as a rush of arousal flooded her senses._

_She wished he would keep up his explorations and tug down her camisole to pay her aching breasts much needed attention. She hoped she wasn't wearing a bra, but strangely she couldn't seem to remember either way. He released his grip on her left hip and moved his right hand up to tease her breast, as if he'd heard her silent plea._

_She wasn't wearing a bra._

_Knees buckling, she gasped for air and held him tighter still, frenzied with lust for the wizard in her arms. Something long and hard brushed against her abdomen and driven by sheer need, she threw her leg around his hip, using his shoulder for leverage as she brought their bodies closer. A moan ripped itself from her mouth at the delightful friction she felt with their bodies pressed together so intimately. His answering groan threw gasoline on the fire which raged inside her._

_"Fuck," he hissed, sending tingles whispering down her spine. "So good… Pansy."_

Pansy shot up in bed, gasping for air, clutching her chest. The room spun as she attempted to get a grip on her surroundings, a hard feat to manage with darkness blinding her.

But it wasn't really so dark.

No, even as she sat her eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was morning—very early morning at that. She ran a hand through her long, brown hair and then let her fingers fall to her lips. They were tingling and her heart was hammering in her chest as if it had all been real.

She'd dreamt of Potter.

Potter… and he had called her _Pansy._

Just thinking about her name on his lips made her abdomen muscles clench with want. It was so forbidden but yet somehow so appealing. She threw her head back on the wealth of pillows on her bed and pushed her foot against her calve, getting her legs hopelessly twisted in the sheets. It was then that she realized she was quite aroused—uncomfortably so. She was overcome with the overwhelming desire to give herself much needed relief.

She sighed in frustration, tangling her hands in her hair again just so she wouldn't be tempted to let them wander. She wasn't so sick and depraved that she would sink low enough to get herself off to thoughts of _The Savior_ —a man so far out of her reach it was laughable.

What the bloody hell had Potter done to her? Was it some kind of trick? Had he cast some spell over her or slipped her a potion? Not that she could see why he would bother. But how was it that he could make her feel so _feverish_? And it wasn't constant either. Like that time in class several days ago—she'd been aware of his presence when she'd entered History of Magic, but she'd been _fine_. So why she went from feeling fine to wanting to stomp straight over to where she knew he sat, likely staring at her if the prickling sensation she felt on the back of her head was any indication, and launch herself on his lap, straddling him before proceeding to snog him senseless—she had no idea. But the urge was so powerful, she had no choice but to flee the room before she gave into temptation.

Sort of like she was trying to keep herself from doing now.

Battling for control seemed to have become the new constant in her life.

Potter had some power of her regardless of how mad such a notion sounded even in the privacy of her own mind. What to do about it was another issue entirely. She surely couldn't confront him about her feelings—she didn't have the guts! If he attempted to pull her aside himself she'd probably run. He wasn't like other boys who she could quickly wrap around her pinky finger and _that_ made him someone to fear.

Oh—what was she saying? It didn't matter that Potter was different— that he stirred tumultuous feelings in her— she was a Slytherin and she wouldn't lose her head around any wizard, least of all him. She wouldn't _run_ —she couldn't let herself. Her pride would hardly allow it. She would just have to treat him as she would anyone else. There was no way she was going to give him any indication he was special—give him power over her! That would only make her vulnerable and Pansy Parkinson never allowed herself to become vulnerable.

She threw her sheets off of her and kicked them down the bed with a groan of dissatisfaction. _Sod it all!_ She wasn't a self-martyring Gryffindor, she was a snake and if she wanted fulfillment then dammit she would get it. Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue she relaxed against the linen and skimmed her fingers over her bare stomach. She was wearing the same camisole as in her Potter-dream, and even though the visions lingering at the recesses of her mind were becoming hazy, the feelings were still there and the promise of sweet relief dangled in front of her temptingly.

Her heart galloped in her chest as she slipped her fingers underneath the waistband of her pajama bottoms. His face swam to the surface of her mind, so strikingly clear she might convince herself he was really there. She imagined his eyes were heavy lidded and his jaw slack like he had been the day he'd pulled her into the alcove. She imagined the fire in his eyes she'd seen that day in the classroom when righteous indignation had provided her with enough courage to stare him straight in the face. Electricity thrummed through her body as her fingers traced her heated flesh, slowly building up the need as she skillfully had so many times before.

But this time was different.

Her folds were slick and just the idea of him doing this to her with his fingers replacing her own sent her running towards the deep chasm that promised bliss at full speed in no time at all. Her teeth tugged at her lips as she continued to stroke her needy flesh, unable to stave off her pleasure even if she wanted to. In seconds she was arching her back and bucking her hips, rolling against her own hand shamelessly, visions of him feeding her fantasies.

It only took one, two circles of her clit to have her fracturing… shattering… spiraling headfirst into the deep abyss where wave after wave of pleasure shot through her for what felt like an eternity. She rode the intoxicating waves, gasping her elation as sweet delirium took her, before she fell back down against the bed, her chest rising and falling sporadically.

It was the longest orgasm she'd ever remembered having and brought by her own hand no less—in a matter of seconds.

She suddenly felt more edgy than before, her suspicions creeping back to her. She clutched the sheet to her chest and froze still as her breathing slowly came back to her. She had got off… to images of _him._ She should feel shame for such a deed, but she couldn't help but think Potter was partially to blame… _somehow._ She only needed to figure out just how.

**Later on that Day…**

Pressing her eyes closed, Pansy let her magic charge up inside her chest before she felt it tingle through her arm and finally slide to the fingers clutching her outstretched wand. She frowned when she failed to bend the magic to her will and glanced at the palm of her hand again where she'd hastily scrawled the repairal spell.

Narrowing her eyes at the ruined rubble of the ledge she'd been assigned, she tried again, adjusting her wand movement slightly as she enunciated the spell. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of a pessimistic nature. Already they were approaching the half point in the school year and she didn't feel very much closer to making progress socially or academically. As she stood and worked on repairing the crumbled stone, she wished it were as simple as practicing a spell to fix her damaged reputation. She'd never readily admit such a thing troubled her, but it definitely shut a lot of doors in her life. The social circles she ran in before would hardly help her now.

She took out all her frustrations on mending the ledge, trying not to think about the fact that come March she would need to petition the Healing program at St. Mungo's. There would be no relying on a good name or her father's pull to get in—those things didn't matter anymore. There were no vast amounts of Galleons sitting at Gringotts to bribe committee members with. For the first time in her life, Pansy didn't know the comfort of money. If anything, the desire to bring back the familiar life she took for granted before was a huge driving factor in selecting a career, especially one as esteemed as a Healer. That and her penchant for Healing Charms.

She'd always taken pleasure in healing Draco and her friends when they needed it. It gave her a brief reprieve during the war. She liked the way it felt to perform those kind of spells—to feel the magic flutter through her body. It was strangely satisfying.

Another driving factor—she wanted badly to help her mother restore the manor and buy back some of the costly heirlooms they were forced to sell from what the Ministry hadn't already seized. It pained her to recall hocking their costly tea set— a beautiful collection in pastel green in grey as an ode to Slytherin with an iridescent shine shifting charm— only to help pay the fines they'd amassed. Pansy had never seen her proud mother allow a single tear to escape her eye before. She didn't want to see it again. She wanted it all back. She wanted Parkinson Manor as it once was, not falling to neglect. Even the portraits were ashamed of them, constantly berating herself and her mother for allowing filthy blood-traitors to get the better of them.

Pansy had more than enough to worry about without needing to add Potter to the mix. Each time _The Savior_ tried to weedle his way in her mind she forcefully clamped down on the thought—effectively shutting him out. She didn't need to think about how she'd allowed herself to give into temptation and let her thoughts drift to him in the privacy of her bed. No one need ever know. It was mortifying. A Parkinson never staked claim on something or someone they couldn't have. It was an embarrassment she would never admit to.

Besides, there were more important things to worry about, clearly. She needed to pull out all the stops if she hoped to have the career of her choice. Sure, she could probably always have a job with Draco. He and Theo were going into Potions together. She was no Divinator, but surely it wouldn't be long before the two of them built a thriving empire. She could probably always rely on the both of them offering her some menial job— a secretarial position, maybe— but if she wanted to do something she truly wanted she was going to have to work for it, and she was going to have to work _harder_ than everyone else.

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips as her spellwork gradually went from strained to effortless. Distantly, she could hear her classmates off in other areas of the Tower firing off spells of their own. She imagined much progress would be made today. Smiling wider, she felt proud to be part of such an effort. Even if she could only boast a small role, she would still be leaving her mark on the castle.

Her mind initially dismissed the sound of approaching footsteps, too swept up in the task at hand and having grown used to the sound of the other students working somewhere alongside her. It was his voice— that velvety, baritone— that jarred her from her silent musings and sent shudders racing down her spine.

"There you are."

She stiffened, her fingers tightening around her wand as she made herself turn around and face him, brown eyes instantly getting helplessly trapped in his startling green gaze. She still wasn't accustomed to seeing him without his trademark glasses.

"I thought you were on the east end helping Greengrass and Davis." Potter shifted his feet, his wand tucked in his denim pocket, his black hair adorably disheveled.

He was looking for her? But… _why_? Her mind worked frenetically in an attempt to understand why he would seek her out and what he could possibly want from her. All the while, she seemed to have lost the ability to form cohesive words and stood gaping stupidly at him. Her heart hammered and her brain fogged as she fought the gripping pull of his stare.

He shifted again, having the audacity to look uncomfortable if not mildly affronted. "Where've you been?" he tried again, confusing her all the more with his apparent concern for her whereabouts.

Repulsed by his ability to seemingly paralyze her with merely a look and the sound of his voice, she mentally shook herself, clearing her mind. She needn't beat herself up about it so much— it was a normal teenage reaction— a hormonal one. The reason for her startling reaction to him was simple—she'd clearly been deprived of sex too long and was bound to respond to the first alluring male she crossed paths with.

Wait.

Had she just referred to him as alluring?

She tried not to think of just _how alluring_ he looked currently, refusing to allow her eyes to wander over his form as they wished desperately to. Something about him exuded sexiness, and it was all she could to keep herself from drawing closer.

"What do you want?" She was immensely pleased with how disinterested her voice sounded. Now to only make her eyes keep her secrets too.

He didn't respond for a moment and proceeded to study her quietly. It was Pansy's turn to shift uncomfortably. She was equal parts torn between wishing he would simply leave her be and wishing he would close the gap between them and push her up against the partially mended wall.

"I don't know," he finally answered, his tone hollow but his eyes honest. "But I—," he broke off, his brow furrowing and jaw tightening as he glanced away. He seemed to be grappling with some internal dilemma and Pansy wondered if he felt it too—this strange connection between them. His mouth fell slack and he turned to face her once more. Avada green eyes brighter than ever. "I can't seem to keep myself away." He took a threatening step forward and she instinctively stepped back. "No matter how hard I try." He moved towards her again and she moved back, a coordinated dance between enemies.

All too aware she was the one retreating, she jutted her chin defiantly and planted her feet. "I don't know what you're talking about." But her voice faltered— trembled, even— and he noticed as a predator spots weakness in it's prey.

He purged the scant distance between them swiftly— so swiftly, her head spun— and she quickly pressed her back against the wall. "Don't you?" He was far too close, his breath mingling with hers. He smelled like cloves and sandalwood and broom polish. She blinked rapidly, trying desperately to suffocate the fear threatening its way to the surface—fear of the unknown. "Because I think _you're lying_." His hypnotic eyes became harder, shrewder as they narrowed in on her, peeling away at her defenses. "I think you feel it too… this _pull_."

Even as he said it— as he named it— something shifted around them. Perhaps it was the crumbling of her many lies she'd built as defenses, but when they fell she felt _it_. The prickling awareness. The clenching in her gut. The pulsating need that bloomed low in her abdomen. It was hard _not to moan_. No one had ever had this sort of effect on her— _no one but him_. And he was admitting he felt it too. The longer he stood, invading her space, the stronger it became, and the harder it was to resist the seductive call to bring herself closer to him until she couldn't tell where one of them began and the other started. It was maddening. It descended her mind into a blissful haze almost drugging in nature. She was suddenly very aware of the way she clutched her wand to her chest almost desperately, of how her eyes had squeezed shut against the truth of his words. How she must look to him? She had guilt written all over her.

"Open your eyes," came the sharp demand, "open them and tell me you don't feel it too."

But if she obeyed, it would all be over because she couldn't endure the wave of feelings crashing over her and be assaulted by the vision of him all at the same time. She didn't have the courage to face it all and still deny what was so glaringly obvious. So much for keeping her Slytherin-cool around the man. He'd done something to her and now she couldn't think clearly. Perhaps if she kept her eyes squeezed closed long enough he would bore of this game and leave her be. Her heart clenched in anguish at the disturbing thought of his departure.

Something soft brushed against her lips and her eyes snapped open.

She gasped. Potter was skewering her with his gaze. She couldn't look away if she wanted to. He'd kissed her. Maddeningly… impulsively… he was going to do it again.

"Tell me I'm wrong," he challenged, his lips descending ever-closer, mere centimeters.

"You're," she swallowed convulsively, feeling like a frog had caught itself in her throat. "You're _wrong_."

Something clattered on the ground between her feet. Her wand, maybe, as now her fingers clutched at emptiness.

"Liar." Grabbing her shoulders, he pressed her harder against the wall until the stone scratched roughly against her blouse. His eyes dropped to her mouth and Pansy couldn't help but dart her tongue out to sweep across her lips, entranced by the sound of his hastened breathing and the sight of his eyes no longer green, but darkening to an impossible shade of black. Only flecks of emerald remained.

Black eyes of a predator, and they were watching her, and surely she must be barmy because none of it could really be happening.

He brushed his lips against her, once… twice… so fast it made her head spin. He dug his fingers harder into the flesh of her shoulders, his expression a captivating mixture of anger and _lust_. There appeared to be a battle raging inside of him, but Pansy no longer felt such turmoil herself. She stopped entertaining thoughts of escape. She didn't even make a conscious decision to indulge in her very secret fantasies—she didn't seem capable of conscious thought at all. She only knew she wanted him… wanted him _badly_ and was no longer content with the chaste kisses he'd given her.

No longer in control, her head lolled to the side as she felt his nose brush from the line of her jaw down to her neck. His tongue lapped at the skin just over her jugular, tasting her. She whimpered in sheer need.

It was sinful. The sounds she made. For _him._

"See?" he whispered against her throat.

"What?" she inquired hoarsely, feeling dangerously close to delirious thanks to the sizzling desire that raced through her limbs and settled like molten lava in the pit of her abdomen.

"You want this." His accusation caused her knees to buckle, and his right hand fell from her left shoulder to grip her by the waist much like had happened in the sex-dream she'd had that morning. He licked at her neck— teasing her— and she melted. "Why should I choose you?" he bit out harshly between licks.

She frowned, unsure of what exactly he was asking her… unsure of _everything_. Lost in desire.

"Give me a reason," he continued, speaking against her throat and working his way back up to her mouth. "You sold me out. You're nothing but a _frightened little girl._ " He tugged her bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, making her cry out.

"Maybe you're right," she relented. "I wish you weren't but—" There was an argument somewhere… an argument of her personal worth, but it had seemed to vanish right when she needed it most. She couldn't think and could hardly defend herself at a time like this. Shame and indignation warred with frenzied heat and lust.

He rolled his hips against her stomach and her eyes widened in surprise when she felt the hard ridge of his arousal press against her. Catching her hair between his fingertips, he rubbed and pulled, arching her head. "You're _mine_ ," he declared hotly, before slanting his mouth against hers, lips clashing and teeth scraping… _finally_.

Pansy didn't attempt to argue with his ridiculous statement. Surprisingly, no argument came to mind. And she was finally snogging him… _snogging Potter_. The pounding need that had built up inside her chest grew in tandem with their kiss. It was always how she imagined it would be. A pull and take so much like their volatile relationship. One of her arms curled around his neck, tugging him closer, whilst the other found its way to his face, tracing the chiseled lines of his cheek.

Potter tasted like he was made for her.

 _Harry!_ Her mind amended with a possessive growl.

Potter tasted like redemption and she was quickly finding herself addicted to such a flavor.

**HPOV**

Harry withdrew for a second, only to look at her thoroughly kissed lips—flushed and full and berry pink.

So much better than his fantasies.

She was panting and her eyes were heavy lidded—long lashes sweeping against cheeks stained a becoming magenta. Entranced, he couldn't help tracing the outline of her lips with his fingertip, eager for more of her exquisite flavor. Ginger pear tea and cinnamon and strawberry lip gloss. His inner beast roared, but Harry was determined to stay in control and savor this moment even if he was stealing it. Even if he was perhaps partially to blame because he'd completely abandoned all pretenses of keeping his Veela charm in check.

None of that mattered when he had her body stretched before him, taut up against the wall and ripe for his attentions. Parkinson went rigid underneath him, as if partially coming to her senses, but he would have her arching that pretty little body off the stone wall soon enough. He was growing tired of her always resisting him in some fashion or another and would have her participating with equal fervor. Trailing his tongue along the column of her jaw, she whimpered in a very un-Parkinson-like fashion and he relished in the sound which shot straight to his growing cock. His eyes raked over her, shining gleefully and pleased with her visceral reaction to him. She couldn't help but react.

Leaning down, he gently sucked her lip, spurred on by a strange possessiveness. His hands wandered the slopes of her body— learning her curves— and desperately wanting to feel underneath the flimsy material which separated them. He suddenly hated her inky blue blouse—the one he'd been admiring just a few hours before when they'd received their assignments in class… when he'd vowed to come seek her out and enact his plan to _get to know her._

Well, that plan had gone to shit.

Sod it all, but he couldn't really bring himself to care, could he? Not when he had the object of his affections writhing in his arms. His hands found their way under the hem of her shirt and whined around her back, admiring the smooth skin he found there as his fingertips played at her bra line. Licking her lips, he coaxed her mouth to part for him so he could deepen their kiss.

Her fingers clenched around the hair on the nape of his neck whilst her other hand fisted into the material of his collar. Sharp jolts of pleasure lanced through him where her grip tightened and he suddenly wished desperately to have her hands explore him more thoroughly, but she still wasn't opening for him. He moved his mouth softly against hers and let his fingers trail under the restrictive straps of her bra, tracing teasing circles. She keened and squirmed against him, and he swallowed down the burning need that spiked through him as he pressed his advantage, stroking his tongue against hers.

His tongue swept passionately through her mouth, making his body come alive and thrum with electricity, but the more he tasted, the more he hungered for. With her, he could never be satisfied with a little. It was all or nothing. To resist her seductive pull over him was futile. He kissed her long and hard, until the consequences meant very little to him. He kissed her until he felt a rush of power—dark and intoxicating. He kissed her until he didn't care about the fingers tugging harshly at his hair or the tongue making his rock and swell in tandem with it.

His mind was becoming wiped clean of thoughts thanks to the raging fire that burned out of control like Fiendfyre in his chest.

They broke away gasping for air, but he seemed to need her _more_ than life-giving oxygen. An urgent plea wrenched itself from her lips, her need as evident and undeniable as his own. He swept his tongue across his lips, lightly tasting her lingering flavor left on his mouth. He felt his control slipping as his senses sharpened yet his thoughts grew hazy at the same time. The beast was taunting him, growing louder in his mind and demanding to be let loose. Like his inner Veela, he found her desperation for him exhilarating. Fangs protruded from his gums. How he longed to sink his teeth into the vulnerable flesh of her neck.

Drawn to the location, his head fell forwards and he nipped and sucked at the spot he wished to claim.

She whimpered plaintively.

He ignored it.

Nothing else mattered so long as she kept her hands on him, even if she would progress to ripping his hair from his head. Her touch was intoxicating and he wasn't sure he could ever come down from this high. He wanted to pull her to his chest, wrap his arms around her, and cherish her like a precious gemstone.

Delirious with need, he tightened his grip around her. "Pansy," he rasped against her skin.

 _Pansy._ Her name sounded right.

His fangs dripped with venom and unthinkingly he scraped them against her soft flesh, mad with want.

Stiffening in his arms, she abruptly straightened and pressed her hands flat against his chest, pushing with all her strength. "P-Potter," she stammered.

He caught her gaze and a fissure of panic penetrated the fog of his mind when he saw wariness mingle with the lust in her chocolate brown eyes.

"What _the fuck_?" Her voice was steadier now, more sure, but her chest still rose and fell in shallow pants—a testimony to the deed they had done. It was a deed so forbidden, but they had done _together._

His vision cleared and his stomach twisted violently. He didn't want to think about the ramifications of this. She watched him with wide eyes, almost disbelieving and he wondered what she saw when she looked at him. It turned out he wouldn't be kept in the dark for long.

"Your eyes," she swallowed and he watched her throat hungrily, "they were black, but now they're green again." She clenched her jaw and took several steps away from him, breathing deeper the further she got. "Maybe it's you who should stay away from me."

He didn't have time to react, for ever the Slytherin, she turned and fled.

Her footsteps were drowned out by the roar inside his head.

**November 25, 1998**

Pansy went through the motions of the days after her impromptu meeting with Harry robotically.

She took out her frustrations on her lessons, attacking her assignments with a scholarly enthusiasm that would have given Hermione Granger a run for her money. Anything to avoid thinking about Harry and what had happened between them.

He hadn't tried to approach her again, and for that she was immensely relieved.

Yes, immensely.

Not disappointed or anything.

Why would she be? The man was a total nutter. Nothing he said or did made any sense. None of his words had any bearing on reality. Pansy would sooner launch herself from the Astronomy Tower than try to sort through that particular wizard's mind. For someone who clearly thought so little of her, he certainly couldn't help himself from keeping from snogging her senseless, could he?

Pansy rolled her eyes, shoving a frustrated hand through her loose hair. Her attention was drawn to her friends sitting around her, each lounging on various chairs in the dungeon. More immediately was Draco sitting to her left and sharing an overstuffed green divan with her. He was talking animatedly with Theo who sat across from him, probably making some grand plans of what they would do after Hogwarts. She couldn't help feeling a flare of jealousy. The faster March approached the more her mood soured. The chance of being rejected kept her in a constant state of fear. Coupled with her restlessness brought on thanks to Harry and his odd behavior towards her, and she was an emotional wreck.

A sigh of revulsion escaped her mouth. She definitely _did not_ do emotional! What was happening to her and more importantly, how did she get things under control once more?

She supposed if she did find herself forced in _his_ company again, she would ask him what the fuck he'd done to her. She would also demand he _stop._ Her life was much-less complicated sans dealing with _amorous saviors_ in her life. The calm, cool, and calculating Pansy was who she longed to become once more. It's what she strived for.

Little by little, she made herself tune into her fellow Slytherin's discussion, her mood plummeting all the more when it became clear what they were talking about.

Eyes narrowing on Draco, blond snake that he was, she leaned over and dropped her voice stealthily. "Are you going to _The Hero's_ party?" An innocent enough question, but she could tell by the guilty expression on his face that he heard the _not-so-subtle_ accusation laced in her inquiry.

He raked a hand through his hair, glancing away before drawing the courage to meet her sharp stare. "Hermione's invited me."

"So it's _Hermione_ now?" Pansy folded her arms across her chest, annoyance seeming to have ignited inside her from out of nowhere.

"Pansy…"

His voice was pleading, and Pansy should've dropped it, after all she'd taken to calling Harry—Harry in the sanctity of her own mind so what right did she have to judge? But Draco didn't know that. And she was overwhelmed with the need to lash out at someone.

"First public appearance of the new _Golden Couple_ , is that it?" Pansy plowed on, barely managing to keep whispering. "Good for your image, is that the way it works?"

Draco reared back as if burned and she immediately regretted the venom had poured her mouth. She only had a second of joy from it, and it so wasn't worth _so obviously_ hurting her friend—one of her only remaining friends at that.

She immediately sat back down, ducking her gaze and fisting the fabric of the cushions. "Sorry," she mumbled hastily.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Draco's brow arch at the uncharacteristic apology. Pansy felt frustrated all over again, and not only for lashing out. What effect was Harry— was _Potter_ — having on her? Had she or maybe had they both been victim of some spell? She heard in sixth year Romilda Vane tried to slip him a love potion in sixth year, and that wasn't the first time. Maybe it had happened again, some strange potion that sounded like nothing Pansy knew about, but this time she got caught in the crossfire too. Surely she wouldn't act this way _naturally._ Surely neither would he! Out of everything that was wearing on her, one thing stood out above all else.

 _He'd_ called her Pansy.

**December 1, 1998**

She supposed it was fitting that she should run into him at nearly the same location as where they'd last met.

"Go away, Potter." She picked up her wand and stashed it inside her Burberry coat, supremely pleased by the irritated look she'd caught on his face before she turned her back on him, spurred on by her rejection, no doubt. Her heart rejoiced, though she couldn't quite tell if it was due to the sweet taste of revenge for making him feel even a tendril of what she was feeling, or if it was his presence alone that lifted her spirits.

She hoped it wasn't something so stupidly romantical as that.

Footsteps clattered against stone as he paced ahead of her and she fought to keep from grinning ruefully even as she pulled the collar of her coat up tighter to protect herself from the wind.

He stood blocking her path and she arched a delicate brow in detached interest.

"First of all, _Pansy_ ," he said with a snarl, eyes burning with an indecipherable emotion, maybe hatred? But she was still Pansy, so she'd take it. "I'd like to know why you're avoiding me?"

Rolling her eyes, she scowled up at him. "Avoiding you?" Her hand perched on her hip. "Didn't I ask you to stay away? I know you have difficulty following instructions, Potter, but honestly, I think you're getting a little too old to keep acting like a ruddy first year."

Pansy's elation over her crisply delivered quip was dashed when she saw him grin widely, displaying rows of perfectly straight teeth. "Following instructions?" He was scoffing at her. "As if _you_ can tell me what to do." He was the picture of carefree, but a muscle twitched by his eye alerting her that his actions were _controlled_ and he was making a tremendous effort on his part.

Cool, calm, and calculating Pansy was not such a far-gone cause after all. "I can when it concerns me." She lifted her jaw just subtle enough to appear out of reach, even though one might argue it was the other way around. She might have left then, and then if she had, she would have won. But instead, some foreign inspiration struck her and she couldn't resist poking him further. "I'm not sure what's going on between us, but you need to quit it."

Harry perked up, a mischievous gleam flashing through his eyes. " _Going on between us_ ," he repeated, voice dropping to that honeyed, baritone Pansy so loathed. Definitely loathed.

She stiffened.

"Whatever could you mean?" He prowled closer and Pansy made a conscious effort to plant her feet. She would not engage in their dance of wills today—the one where she always seemed to be the one who ended up on the losing side, backing away. Though in this case, the losing side did hold its appeal.

"You know what I mean," she flicked her long hair over her shoulder, her gaze darkening. "You know what _happened_."

He smirked, a rather dark smirk which caused her to doubt herself. "The kiss?" His smirk grew wider and somehow more menacing at her jerky nod. "It was just a kiss—simple snogging. Surely you know all about such practices."

His words wove around her, loosely catching her in a hypnotic loop before tightening in a stricture-like grip she was hard-pressed to escape from. "You know," she stammered, for some reason deciding to explain further. "It wasn't a kiss of the… of the _regular variation_ , that is." Doubt flicked through her gaze before she dismissed it, gripping onto the hem of her coat until her knuckles whitened. "You did something, I'm sure."

His green eyes were downright gleeful, reminding her very much of a predator who'd cornered it's prey. "Really?" he sang. "What makes you think so?"

"I—." She cursed internally, berating herself for revealing so much to the man and falling right into his trap. Just who was the Slytherin here? She approached it all wrong. She should have acted like it was _nothing_. Now he knew how much it affected her. Now she was more vulnerable than she was before.

"Why, _Pansy_ ," he didn't say her name so much as _taste it_. It was somehow erotic. She felt her thighs quiver and her abdomen muscles squeeze and clench on emptiness. A delightful haze clouded her mind as his words continued to wrap around her like a vice. "I do believe you're paying me a compliment, though I doubt you mean to."

She grit her teeth against the feelings he roused in her. "Turn it off."

He blanched, the predatory smile slipping. "What?"

"You know what." Pansy didn't know _exactly what_ , but she had a feeling he did. "Stop playing with me." The fog of delirious want receded slowly from her brain, but the feeling of overwhelming need didn't go away. Still, feeling more clear-headed than before she pressed on. "What's going on between us? I have a right to know."

Schooling his features, he was able to meet her accusatory stare again. She was thrown at _how angry_ he appeared. Wasn't she the one who was supposed to be angry? How was he turning it around on her? Sweet Morgana—it was she who was the victim in all this! There was more fire in his eyes now than ever. Jarred, she took a retreating step back before she could help herself.

"Don't ask questions you have no desire to know the answer to."

Pansy scoffed loudly. "What do you know about what I want?"

She felt his eyes rake over her, leaving a fiery trail in its wake and causing her to shift uncomfortably. "Quite a lot, actually."

She blushed fiercely at the implication of his words.

"I also know you're a scared little coward who can't handle the truth."

Bristling, she felt guilt swim to the surface. Her eyes could barely meet his, frightened by the curiosity she saw there, spurred to run as far from him as she possibly could thanks to the challenge she saw waiting in those bright green orbs.

Ducking her head in shame, she did just that and fled past him before he could strip away anymore of her defenses and make her face the darkness.

"Yeah," he called after her, his voice echoing. "Just run. It's what you do best! But you won't be able to run forever."


End file.
